


Rearview Mirror

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder thinks about past decisions and motivations, some of which are highly questionable, and how his life has turned out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearview Mirror

_“I couldn’t breathe, holding me down   
Hand on my face, pushed to the ground   
Enmity gaged, united by fear   
Forced to endure what I could not forgive”   
_**-Pearl Jam, **_**Rearviewmirror **  
_  
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

Mohinder wondered if the person who came up with the informative statement understood how prophetic the words were. Innocent enough they were also ominous as any threat leveled at him.

Five years in America and the country was still as distant as when he had arrived to pick up the final vestiges of his father’s life. Yet New York had awkwardly, melancholically, and with hope, taken him in. The city held him close to its erratic heart from the start making him one of its wounded own.

Chennai was his childhood glowing bright (sometimes too much that it made him wince) reminding him that a safe haven existed should he choose to go back one day. But New York was his adult life, tumultuous and contemplatively beckoning him to return wherever he found himself in the world. Gloomy bluish gray and pulsating rainbow lights it had its hooks in him. Not that he would leave otherwise. What had once been Chandra’s other, alien, life had reconfigured into Mohinder’s with only trace amounts of his father’s past lingering in an existence that was free and clear as his very own.

As a welcome the city had tried to break him down wrenchingly and ruthlessly. He fought every step of the way and was rewarded with strength of mind (as well as a decent shot and impressive right hook) and a cynical heart. Chennai would no longer recognize him. There were times his face seemed no more than a collection of shapes, but out of the abstract he emerged.

The city breathed new life into him. Every step of every battle, be it in the physical realm or that of an intellectual debate, rushed his body and he found himself at the epicenter of many life altering events. For someone with no genetic anomaly of his own to offer the world he was immersed in he curiously drew many of those people to him. He imagined they saw something he could not and as much as his need to know pined away, the not knowing was contained by being sought out and needed by the people he admired, who awed him in return.

Those cast in supporting roles faced their own demons, some easily slain while others receded into the shadows waiting for another opportune time to attack. A united front worked better on paper and failed or barely successful tactical maneuvers against greater foes taught Mohinder to be more selfish, to put his well-being near the top of the list (Molly took priority) because no one else would do that for him.

Matt had already brought down the wrathful rain of his comrades by succumbing to the tempting misuse of his growing abilities. Attempting to enforce a controllable life he did not have to always worry about he fell into the trap of taking away the free will of others. A mistake, but one of betrayal, carried with it the punishment of Molly being removed from his care while he was forcibly removed from the apartment he once shared with the young girl and Mohinder. Molly found a slightly less troublesome stability with Micah and Niki, the latter whom had to work at keeping Jessica manageable from dawn to dusk and did so courageously.

For his part Matt remained working with the Resistance but at an arm’s length; the metaphoric restraining order that angry and disappointed eyes dared him to cross if he wished to lose the last remnants of trust.

Interestingly, given her past, Niki was the closest person to a touchstone of normality that Mohinder had. In many ways it was her history that gave them something to grow on, right and wrong and a billion shades of gray that muddled the middle. She was more than a surrogate mother to Molly and a sense of relief for Mohinder with his lack of formal parenting skills. During an unplanned visit or over long distance calls she walked Mohinder through battle strategies with a skillful knowledge she imparted without getting her hands dirty. He thought Jessica missed the fight but Niki had taken over the reigns long before and keeping Micah, and Molly, safe provided the motivation. It was Mohinder’s hands that were stained.

Molly, like Micah, had already lived two lifetimes in the fleeting years of childhood. There was no talk of unfairness; it was what it was. Any sense for her lost youth was felt by Mohinder as he recalled, in silent ruminations, the happiness he had experienced in India with his friends and wide-eyed (at the time) interest in his father’s fantastical theories. The world was much freer then, or so it seemed. Now the multitude of possibilities came with a warranty, a restriction and a catch sure to be played out.

Mohinder spoke with Molly as often as he could which had unfortunately decreased to once a week. Infrequent as their communications were they filled the void. School, travels, they joked and tiptoed around what demanded their separation. Words were carefully spoken but the sentiments were absolutely real. Long distance was not good enough but it sufficed. They had no other choice.

At times, choice seemed no more than a placating illusion that made them all scurry about. In truth however choice was played out in different hands not always explicable to outside eyes. For all Bennet had sacrificed Mohinder expected a modicum of compassion for the similar plight of others. Instead Bennet dished out punishing sentences for wrongdoings with a methodical lack of emotion. Mohinder believed his true feelings to lie deeply buried beneath the mask of callous indifference, a necessary tactic to keep the group focused in one direction.

It was Bennet who felt Matt’s punishment should entail the wiping of his memory by The Haitian to reduce him to the flummoxed cop who struggled with little more than to make detective. So unflinching was his intent that it still amazed Mohinder they had been able to talk Bennet out of it. Despite the consensus that Matt had decimated the line of trust the idea of manipulating his ability so severely struck most as barbaric mutilation. All had seemed relieved, including The Haitian, at not having to cross a threshold rife with disturbing consequences for all of them. Bennet seemed more disappointed than enlightened by the argument, rolling his eyes in caustic agreement. Mohinder watched him wearily ever since.

Any second-guessing about going against Bennet’s orders was swept aside by the reminder that Elle’s daily presence provided. Mohinder’s temporary partnership with her at The Company’s request was nerve wracking at best. For the playful fearlessness she showed in the unending array of volatile scenarios their missions put them in she was also recklessly off her rocker, as much a threat to Mohinder when she was backing him up as when she was focused on selfish gain.

On more than one occasion she had sought to settle a disagreement by zapping him and he found sleeping with one eye open a mind numbing existence. Her already sociopathic nature had been exacerbated from infancy through cruel and unusual experiments, okayed by her father to turn her into a soldier for The Company. She was the living embodiment of punishing techniques that psychologically maimed an already unstable personality. Sometimes a little girl, other times a child playing dress up as a woman; Elle was a kid in an adult body, frighteningly homicidal—when she was not treating Mohinder as a pet.

Eventually Mohinder had put his foot down when his safety could not be ensured and mission objectives remained in the shadows. The fight that followed with Bob was tense yet remarkably contained. But he could never get Elle’s cold, hurt and seething eyes when he left the office, out of his head.

Since then he had seen her only a handful of times in passing and she had offered him no more than a sarcastic remark, always inappropriate in content. The last he had heard a mission she was on in Bulgaria had gone wrong but no one had explained to him what that meant.

Good little soldiers (a term spoken with such condescending authority that it creeped goosebumps of disgust along Mohinder’s skin) were hard to come by, whether raised from birth by The Company or tracked down much later in life. Maya’s breakout from one prison (being at the mercy of her deadly power) had landed her in another one as an animal tested captive held tightly within Company walls.

Driven by hope and derailed by well-played calculations she fell into a well of wallowing pity only properly contained by the secretive and highly intelligent organization. The decision to hand her over was not based on some idealistic misunderstanding of a potentially brutal group. As much as Mohinder’s natural instinct was to do everything he could to help her he was also restricted by time sensitive work that required his undivided attention while still allowing for the random check up on her.

Being alone had worked to Maya’s advantage by forcing her to look to no one but herself for salvation, newfound strength and unwavering purpose. Poked and prodded she learned through The Company how to harness her ability and manipulate it for specific purposes. Prisoner number ML04019, she was their prized research subject—a weapon in human form.

To her benefit she played the role well but serving revenge cold was easier said than done. Only with Mohinder did frustrated tears pour with anger down her cheeks as old trusting Maya was released and new unrelenting Maya took residence. And so, in the garish gleam of an October twilight what Mohinder could not do for Chandra (although he had started it a handful of times) Maya took upon herself for Alejandro.

Suspicious gossip filled whispered conversations that Mohinder had helped her escape. He held his head high and kept his eyes forward, working at maintaining a sustainable balance between The Company and covert plans to take it down. Not once did he indicate that the rumours were true; that Maya, once a runaway then a prisoner then a rogue agent, had been set loose on the world as a self-declared vigilante with his assistance.

By her own creed she hunted down those who would use their powers to hurt and punished them. An eye for an eye she traveled further away to the periphery of Mohinder’s vision, exceeding his grasp, until she was as wanted an outlaw excessively righting horrific wrongs.

At first Mohinder felt gnawing regret for the part he played in Maya’s turn towards such a destructive life considering she had first sought his father out to escape one. That regret was lessened by the unsure acceptance that Maya was doing humanity a service and that he, along with others like Molly, Peter and Micah to name a few, would not be harmed. It was a selfish justification and Mohinder wore it uneasily, like a coat that did not fit quite right but still fought off the cold while straining against his moving limbs.

Sylar resided at the top of Maya’s hit list but his growing arsenal of powers kept him well ahead of her. If anything the constant chase provided Maya the motivation to keep going, following her own code against shady characters while settling her eyes on the one mark she could not get her hands on.

Sylar.

He showed up in Mohinder’s life at irregular intervals. Usually brief, as if the visits were more of a layover than the main destination. The men filled the space between them with tense words of muddied definitions that could be read many different ways. Daring eyes latched firmly on their identical counterpart, bridging the distance before hands grabbed in powerful displays of control or swung out in uncompromising defiance.

Bruises formed around cuts. Painful but superficial it was the fastest completed conversation between them. Rousing old emotional battlegrounds, their arguments always preceded them eventually setting aside stinging betrayal to deal with why the visits were not impromptu but factual character traits for what they had become. However that realization only became clearer with time. In the beginning time was something they had little of.

Limited sand through the hourglass was cut down further by Peter’s constant interruptions. No more than five minutes would pass before he made himself known. In his mourning for Nathan, who despite surviving the assassination attempt made on his life had been altered into a much darker and untrustworthy person; Peter had assigned himself as Mohinder’s personal protector, doing what he could not do for a brother whose loss ripped him to the core.

The gesture, though appreciated, was not one Mohinder had asked for. Rather he found it derailed any information exchange with Sylar hinted at in their first collection of minutes together, alone. But Mohinder found it difficult to articulate such an opinion to Peter and the only option was to let everything unfold, as it was prone to do.

That meant just as Mohinder and Sylar started to use words in place of weighted body language Peter would pop into view. A roll of Sylar’s eyes at the interruption (an action Mohinder once thought was over the inconvenience it posed to Sylar’s carefully constructed plans against him but with time could also be interpreted as annoyance over their loss of private time without third party guests crashing) and Peter stepped in front of Mohinder. A dizzying onslaught of powers was unleashed from both men, ripping havoc throughout the apartment, and Mohinder struggled to say out of the line of fire.

Brutal and unyielding the fights raged until Sylar was forced to backtrack by his inability to heal. Blood, burned flesh, cracked bones littered the senses and Sylar would stumble off into the darkness while Mohinder cut off Peter’s pursuit. Peter looked at him with anguished confusion and Mohinder tried to argue incoherently that Sylar might be able to help them go after The Company based on the information snippets he could get before Peter showed up, and that Sylar was not there to hurt him.

“Then what’s this?” Peter demanded time and time again grabbing Mohinder’s arm to point out the mess of healed cuts and faded bruises that marred the skin.

How could Mohinder answer that which he could not explain except to say the broken and marked skin (on Sylar as well) was not so much a blistering attack of hatred as it was some dysfunctional language that melded their past and present and worked as the warm up to more intellectual feats and discussions. Mohinder tried to make Peter understand but it felt a futile exercise and the apartment battles continued.

With Claire’s regeneration and Adam’s immortality the fights tired Peter but did not incapacitate him. Mohinder’s civilian wounds as he increasingly tried to throw himself in the middle to put an end to the conflict got more permanent and painful. Ironically Peter who still had to work hard at controlling so many abilities at once inflicted the worst wounds. A repeated case of friendly fire it was a punishment Mohinder felt deeply for the choices he made. Sylar’s body was the flesh and bone ledger of the altercations with one of his oldest enemies. He took the brunt of what Peter dished out and he wore the scars angrily for the show of weakness it disgusted him to be reminded of.

Whether Mohinder’s words found their mark or Peter peered into his mind enough to no longer dismiss what was being said, the fights stopped ending with Sylar retreating. Instead Sylar would be bleeding and limping, but standing tall, on one side of the room and Peter would be in the opposite corner, exhausted and out of breath, trying to keep his abilities from overwhelming him. In the middle would stand Mohinder, slightly hunched over and grimacing from new wounds, looking back and forth between the two while yelling, “Enough!” Then it was Peter who left first as their fights transformed from life ending attacks to some necessary prerequisite altercation to get out of the way before Mohinder and Sylar continued on their own.

With Peter gone Mohinder and Sylar would stare each other down while huffing and puffing into the suffocating air between them. Slow movements took Sylar past Mohinder, with a brief glance, to the bathroom where he tended to his wounds. Mohinder in turn walked to his bedroom, locking the door behind him, and eyed a new contusion to be nursed to health in the mirror. He listened for the click of the front door indicating Sylar had left but in recent visits he heard Sylar’s footsteps to the living room sofa meaning he was staying the night but would be gone before Mohinder woke in the morning.

They maintained separate quarters but both breached the invisible border when the pull was too strong. Mohinder had long ago passed from wanting only vengeance on Sylar to putting up with him to, regrettably, accepting what he could offer on the grand scale of things. That there were people out there worse than Sylar (the thought of which was troublesome and frightening) made the offer of working with Sylar an evil born of necessity.

That was still the case but something else had shifted. Late night conversations stretched out beyond the indifferent giving of information with the addition of personal inflections, adages that broke their eyes apart briefly but kept comfortable tones relaying their growing familiarity out in the open. Mohinder internalized the odd realization, unwilling to accept the responsibility for what such an outspoken acknowledgment would include; but business as usual no longer applied to them, despite pretenses to the contrary.

************ ********** ********** ********** **********   
**  
Another long night and Mohinder tried to wrap himself in the reflective quiet that followed Peter’s exit. He stood in the bathroom with his hands grasping the sides of the sink, shoulders hunched forward while he stared down at the running tap water. His button down shirt lay in a rumpled ball on top of the closed toilet seat to his left. But it was not a new injury that made him hiss with displeasure.

Sylar stood behind him lightly touching ointment to a burn Peter had accidentally inflicted on Mohinder’s back a week earlier. The burn was not healing as fast as Mohinder had hoped and its unfortunate placement in the center of his back made it difficult to reach for self-treatment. Besides the unexpectedness of Sylar paying him a visit so soon since the last time, having him tend to his wound left them in a disquieted state.

Sylar hesitated at Mohinder’s harsh intake of breath before continuing the last of the medicinal application. Mohinder looked up and his eyes met Sylar’s in the mirror. Glancing back down he felt Sylar’s fingers still resting on his back, and he looked up once more. Again their gazes met and Sylar’s brow crinkled as he narrowed his eyes inquisitively. Mohinder’s eyes widened with a hint of understood concern.

Stepping back Sylar moved away, shaking his head free from distraction and Mohinder let out a thoughtful exhalation of breath before turning to pick up his shirt.

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.   
 


End file.
